Sunday, August 29, 2010

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I heard someone say, “Life is not worth living if you don’t have something worth dying for.” I really don’t know if I agree or disagree with this statement but it really struck me. It’s in the back of my mind every day and keeps me asking myself, “What is it that I am passionate about? What makes me want to wake up in the morning?” It’s pretty heavy stuff if you ask me.

As I think about what my answer could possibly be, I look around- at the people I’m surrounded by, the things I see out the car window and the changes the sky makes at night. This past Friday was the biggest parade my small town has to offer and I finally got to see it. I’ve always been off at a soccer tournament and this was my first year home to see it. My neighbor rode his longhorn in the parade, the high school football team had their own float, and my dream of being the Luling Watermelon Thump Queen only grew when I saw her float. Green, red, and white sparkles seem to appeal to me for some reason. The whole town stood and cheered when our local troops just home from Afghanistan and Iraq drove by, and of course, what would a small town parade be without old tractors?

Watching all of this and absorbing the charm and pride of a small town made me realize that this is what makes me want to wake up every morning. It’s the people in this world and the stories they have to share. It’s my divorced parents who still sit next to me at a parade because they love me and don’t want their differences to affect the way we live. It’s my older sister who, no matter how much we annoy each other, comes home on the weekends just to see me and have dinner as a family. It’s the cow that lives next door and the dream that one day I will be on a big sparkly float with a tiara bigger than my head.

What I am passionate about is the world. I’m beginning to discover all of these little things that make life worth living and, to be honest, it’s a bit overwhelming. All of those lectures my parents have given me for the past 19 years are finally starting to make sense. I think I’m actually discovering who I am and who I want to be and it’s because I’m learning something from every person I see.

Maybe it’s a stretch to say that life isn’t worth living if you have nothing worth dying for. It’s all a matter of opinion. I do think that being passionate about something, or having passion for something, makes the hard days easier. For anyone who may be struggling or at a hard place in their lives, look around. Sit on a bench and just watch. There is so much to see and learn every day. There are stories out there being told but we never slow down enough to listen. It’s like what they tell you in first grade before you cross the street- Stop. Look. And Listen. You never know what you might discover.



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Sunday, August 22, 2010

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Last week I stumbled across this picture of my mom that was taken on her final day of chemo treatment. Every picture I’ve shared so far has been of healthy people. For anyone wanting to know what life in a cancer family is like, the truth has always been in my writing. I have come to feel, however, that it is equally important to show what it is like as well.

To be honest, I had no idea that this picture even existed. I had no recollection of my mother ever looking that sick. I tried to tap into all of my memories, searching for some image of her face, and I realized that there were none. I remember everything about my mother’s treatment except the way her face looked. I don’t really know, but I think it may be some form of psychological defense mechanism- the brain naturally erases the most disturbing images to protect itself. Whatever the reason for my not remembering, seeing this picture last Tuesday evening was the first time I had ever seen my mom as a cancer patient with a real disease that was a real threat to her life.

I took the picture downstairs to show Mom and she immediately burst into tears. I leaned over to give her a hug and said, “Mama, look how far you’ve come.” I think it was the first time she realized this amazing thing she had accomplished how much she had to be proud of.

What struck me as I kept staring at this picture was just how beautiful my mom is. Despite the cancer and chemicals pumping through her body and taking everything she had, she was so pretty. Behind the tired skin and hairless head was a pair of sparkling green eyes and a smile that cannot be matched. Behind the surgical scars and aching bones is a survivor. Behind it all is my mom.

This picture is the epitome of Mom. She was literally going through hell and yet she put on a boa and tiara and was beaming the entire time. This picture that at first brought tears to my eyes now makes me smile every time I see it. It reminds me that, no matter how hard we hit rock bottom, there is always hope.

Thank you Mom. I am SO proud of you.

*Mom also asked me to note how lovely her teeth look



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Sunday, August 15, 2010

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One of the things that accompany cancer is anger- a patient who is angry with God for giving them the disease, a spouse angry at themselves because cancer is the one thing they couldn’t protect their loved one from, or a child angry at their parent for being sick. In my family, this last form of anger was very prominent.

We have always been a tight-knit family. Even after my parents divorced, we still spend holidays together and everyone gets along. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, however, things changed. I was the one who was curious about chemo treatments and what all the little holes in Mom were for. I wanted to be a part of it all and know what was happening. I think this is because I was 13 and didn’t really understand what exactly all of it meant.

My sister, Katie, was the one who became very angry at my mom. She couldn’t talk to or even look at her for weeks. She’d come home from school and head straight for her room and only make the occasional appearance for dinner or if she had a question. Katie has always been my best friend, but even I couldn’t understand what was wrong. Being 17 at the time, Katie knew exactly what could happen to our mother. She knew why Mom was bald, why she looked so tired, and why people stared at her when we went to the grocery store. Katie felt every staring eye piercing through her at every moment, and she was mad. She was mad because Mom was sick; mad that she couldn’t make our lunches anymore; mad that all Mom did was sleep all the time. Katie was mad because she felt like she had already lost the woman she loved most and she wasn’t ready for it. Mom had always promised she would never leave us until we were ready, and Katie thought she was going to break her promise.

My mom and sister had a huge breakdown in the dressing room at Target. They had just gone on a mini shopping trip to get Mom out of the house for a while. Katie was still so angry and my mom finally said, “Katie stop it. What is going on?” My sister broke down and told Mom everything she was feeling- why she was mad, how she felt alone, and more than anything, how terrified she was that Mom was going to die. That was it- the root of Katie’s anger was fear.

This is why it is ok to be angry, because underneath it all is fear. If you’re angry at your mom or dad, or if your child is angry at you, consider it a good thing. It’s because you are a strong family surrounded and held together by love. It’s easier to tell yourself that you’re angry rather than admit you’re afraid. It’s basic human nature.

I know I’ve said this before, but my parents waited two weeks to tell Katie and me that Mom had breast cancer. On the surface, we were angry that they didn’t tell us right away. Did they not trust us? Did they think we couldn’t handle the truth? That we weren’t mature enough? This is where the anger started. Underneath it all, however, was the fact that two weeks had passed and they didn’t have our support. It was two weeks that we couldn’t fight the disease together, as a family. It was two more weeks that Mom and Dad were scared without us there to help.

It’s ok to be angry. It’s ok to cry and yell. It’s ok to feel selfish and not understand and feel like you’re losing the most important person in your life. All it means is that you love them. But you have to tell them how you feel. For their health and your sanity, you have got to tell them. That’s how you make it through.



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Sunday, August 08, 2010

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For Easter my mom got me tickets to see Michael Buble in concert. The concert was a few weeks ago and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had with her. It was just the two of us and it was amazing. Michael Buble is disgustingly talented and hilarious to top it all off. Needless to say, I’m in love with the man.

What struck me the most about his performance, other than the hopelessly romantic songs he sang, was his final song. He sang “A Song for You” by Leon Russell with the full band and all the lights and drama, but halfway through it the curtain fell, the lights went out, and the band stopped playing. There was a pause and then a single spotlight shone on Mr. Buble who was standing on stage alone. He sang the second half of the song by himself with no music and no fancy effects. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Here was this man singing to a crowd of 14,000 people with no help. It was raw, pure, and honest. All I could think about was how vulnerable he was and how he was singing because it was what he loved to do and he wanted to share it with others.

This event made me want to be a more honest person and not be afraid to share myself with others. I dream of being a writer and sharing what I love with anyone who will listen. The only way I can do that is if I’m honest and I write what I feel. As cheesy as it sounds, I could feel what Mr. Buble felt because he was allowing himself to share it with 14,000 other people. If that’s not courage then I don’t know what is. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced, and I got to do it sitting next to the greatest woman in the world.

When Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer she waited two weeks to tell my sister and me. She just wanted to know for sure that it was real, and I can’t blame her. To me, however, those were two weeks she spent alone and I wish she would have told me so she would have had someone to hold her hand. I was there with her throughout her chemotherapy and recovery, but I can’t say I was there for the diagnosis and it bothers me on a selfish level. I want to be able to say I was with her through it all, feeling and experiencing it alongside her. I know I was, but I still wish I had those first two weeks.

One thing I’ve learned in the past six years, that was brought to my attention at the concert, is that we have to let ourselves feel. When we are afraid or feeling alone, we have to let ourselves experience that fear to fully move past it. We have to embrace it. That’s the only way we will be confident enough to let others in too. I think that’s what my mom was doing in those first two weeks. She had to be afraid and let herself accept her new reality before she could introduce it to anyone else. Then she shared it with my sister and me and it turned into an experience that changed our lives. In some sort of twisted way, the same thing happened at the concert.

There is something to be said about honesty. Whether you are a singer, a breast cancer survivor, or someone in between, never in your life are you more vulnerable than when you are being honest, and never in your life are you more beautiful than when you share that with someone who is waiting to hear you.



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Sunday, August 01, 2010

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The places in which we learn things are often random and unexpected, but they hold some of life’s greatest lessons. The people we meet in those places make it that much greater. My mom has always taught me that I can learn something from every single person I meet. I didn’t really understand that notion until I left for college, but I have discovered that there is so much truth behind it.

I met my best friend, Regina, in the bathroom of my dorm. The girls all shared a bathroom on our floor so there was a lot of mingling going on at all hours of the day- or night. I don’t remember the actual moment we became friends, but it seems like we just met and that was it, we were stuck with each other.

Regina’s brother is in the army. Before I met her, the war our country is in never seemed real to me. It was just a distant thing people mentioned over fancy luncheons or dinner parties. It was never something that I paid any attention to or had any feelings about until I walked into Regina’s room one day and found her sobbing. Her brother had just received his letter stating that he was being deployed. That was the first time I was ever afraid for someone I had never met, a soldier about to leave home without knowing if he’ll ever come back.

I can’t say I went through it all with Regina because I didn’t. I didn’t know what she was feeling. I do know that, had my sister been in her brother’s shoes, I would have been petrified and unable to make it through the day without thinking something had happened to her. I had no idea what to tell Regina, what to say to make her feel better, so I just listened. I still don’t know if that did any good, but I think that just being there with her while she was afraid was all she needed- another lesson I learned from my mom.

Regina’s brother came home six days ago, safely. She and her family were there to meet him. He got in at three o’clock in the morning and Regina sent me a picture of the homecoming. I looked at the picture and felt tears well up in my eyes. For the first time I was proud for someone. I was so proud for Regina and her family, that they had a son and a brother with that much courage and belief in doing the right thing and making a difference. I was proud to have Regina as a friend, and so grateful to have her in my life.

Seeing the picture she sent me at three o’clock in the morning, and being connected to it in even the smallest of ways, filled me with a pride I have never felt before. I kept saying to myself, “Here are all of these men who have been at war and their families are finally right in front of them and they have the dedication to stand in perfect formation and complete their duty to this country.” If that had been me, I would have run off the airplane and into my parents’ arms within seconds. But not these guys. They had a job to do, and in my opinion, they did it very well.

Looking back at it all, the lesson I took away is to learn from people and appreciate what they teach you. Be there for your friends even if you can’t understand what they are going through. And pray for the moment when you learn what it’s like to be proud for the family of a soldier- be it a man who is fighting in Iraq, a sister facing her fears of losing her brother, or a woman battling breast cancer. What they do is not easy.



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Sunday, July 25, 2010

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Someone recently asked me two questions that really struck me: Is there a difference between the reality of the breast cancer world and the way it is perceived? What advice would you give an outsider who is trying to help a friend get through breast cancer?

Oddly enough, these are the two most obvious questions I think someone might ask, but I never really thought to answer them. Is the breast cancer world different than the bright pink t-shirts and bows plastered across television screens and billboards? How do you help a friend battle breast cancer when you have absolutely no idea what they are going through? The answers might not be quite what you expect.

Answer 1: No. The breast cancer world that is painted, or rather spattered with pink, is not that way at all. In fact, a lot of survivors hate the color because of what it stands for. For them, pink represents a disease. It represents chemotherapy, hair loss, anger, fear, resentment, and pain blundering its way through every cell of the body. Pink is the color assigned to the worst time of these women’s lives.

Being the daughter of a survivor and not actually having been through cancer myself, I can’t quite understand where my mother is coming from when she refuses to wear a pink shirt, however, I do understand why she does not want to be defined by her past experiences with the disease. The experience of cancer is as dark as the spot on a mammogram. There is a stigma associated with it that a lot of survivors and families try to avoid. I don’t want my family to be defined by it. We are too talented, too diverse, and too wonderful to be thought of as “that family whose mom had cancer.” My mother is the strongest woman I know. I consider her to be the reincarnation of Wonder Woman. She is brilliant, amazing, and more driven than anyone I know. She is too special to be defined as a cancer patient. Breast cancer made my family stronger. It was an adventure, a challenge, and a blessing. It did not define us, but made our original definitions a little longer.

Answer 2: To help a friend get through cancer, you can’t try to pretend you understand because you don’t. I know that sounds awful but it is one of the best pieces of advice I can offer. I had no idea what my mother was going through, just as my friends had no idea what I was going through. When you have a family member battling cancer it feels as though you are the only ones in the world going through it. The last thing you want is for someone to tell you they understand. What the patient and family needs is someone to listen, someone to cry to, someone to hear them sob, someone to laugh with them, someone to sit in silence with, and someone to just be there. Don’t try to be anything but you, because you are the most normal thing in their lives and just being there will save them.

Cancer is scary. It’s not hot pink. It’s not something other people understand. It is a battle that requires an army, and ours was made of friends that turned out to be guardian angels. Cancer is the greatest battle anyone can ever fight, and it is worth every second of it.


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Sunday, July 18, 2010

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There are certain terms associated with the cancer world that any outsiders might not understand. One of these terms is “new normal.” It’s one of those that makes absolutely no sense when you first hear it, but it soon becomes your mantra and best friend. So what is a “new normal” and how can you get one?

When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, our whole family went with her to the consultation before she began chemotherapy. The doctor explained to us, in a fairly blunt manner, that we had a choice to make: cancer would change our lives forever and it was up to us whether or not it would be a good change or a bad one. At that moment so much was being hurled at us that a choice like that seemed ridiculous. And yet, it was so true. Cancer was going to change our lives in ways we never would have predicted. What we did with those changes was a choice only we could make. The normal we had been used to for our entire lives was about to be shattered, so we had to find a new one.

There is no time line for when this new normal is set to arrive. For some it comes the moment they leave the doctor’s office. For others it doesn’t occur until after treatments are over and they are left saying “what now?” For me, this new normal arrived neatly bundled in my mother’s drains.

My mother made the decision to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction following her diagnosis. Both of her breasts were removed and the doctor took fat from her stomach and used it to rebuild new breasts. As part of the post-operation healing process, Mom was sent home with a drain on each side of her body from which the excess fluids from surgery left her and traveled down tubes where they were collected in little plastic sacks that were attached to her. These sacks had to be changed out daily. I distinctly remember the first day I saw them. I didn’t know they were there until my dad asked me for help changing Mom’s bandages. We meticulously pulled the gauze and surgical pads from around her torso and once we got to her skin, these little sacks filled with fluid of a disgustingly unimaginable color rolled out from under the final layer of gauze and I almost lost my lunch. Now, my Dad’s favorite movie is “The Fifth Element” and there is an alien opera singer with tentacles coming out of her head and down her sides- this is all I could think about when I saw my mother’s drains. It was gross and I didn’t want to help anymore. I quickly realized, however, that my mom needed me. Her recovery depended on my willingness to be there for her. My earliest recollection of ever having an epiphany was when I saw those drains hanging from the woman who brought me into this world. Staring at the puss, I realized that this was my new normal. Six months later, when my mother finished her chemotherapy treatments and the doctor told her she was cancer free, I realized again that this was my new new normal. It changes.

Normality is what you make it. It’s what you want it to be and what you decide it will be. It’s not a standard set by others that you have to live up to. After my mom’s reconstruction surgery, my uncle would jokingly ask if, because her breasts were made of fat from her stomach, they would growl when she got hungry. In my opinion, that is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. To a lot of people, though, it’s morbid humor that might be deemed inappropriate. But that’s the normal I come from, and that’s the normal I have come to know and love.


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Sunday, July 11, 2010

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Two and half years ago I lost my horse, Harriet. She had a microscopic hole in her stomach and could not survive the extensive surgeries needed to find it, let alone repair it. I never knew what a broken heart felt like until I lost her. She was everything to me. She was the one constant in my life during my mother’s cancer and my parent’s divorce. I raised her myself and trained her to become a brilliant dressage horse. Every time she hurt, I hurt, and vice versa. I knew her every thought and she knew mine. It was a bond unlike any I thought possible. As cheesy as it sounds, she was my best friend who somehow made everything ok.

I always thought it was too dramatic when I’d hear stories of someone quitting something they love because they’d suffered a loss due to it. I felt like that only happened in movies and wasn’t what real life was like. I was wrong. When I lost Harriet, I learned what it was like to feel empty, to be angry at God, and to think life was unfair. I cried for weeks, stopped talking to people, and stayed in my bedroom when I wasn’t at school. My chest ached and I felt like I had a hole in me. Part of me was gone and it burned. They say when you fall off of a horse you have to get back on so you won’t be afraid to ride again. That’s the most valuable lesson that life has taught me, to get back up. This time, however, I stopped riding. Until today.

I rode my first horse in over two years today. His name is Murphy and he belongs to my sister. When I woke up this morning I didn’t want to do it. I felt just as I have since Harriet passed- reluctant, and like I was betraying her. I thought getting on Murphy would be this dramatic event that you read about in novels or see in those horse movies where someone is hospitalized and it takes years before they can even walk again. It wasn’t. I got on Murphy and everything flooded back to me. Things just felt right. Never once did I try to pretend I was on Harriet because she moves differently than any horse I have ever been on, but it was nice just to ride again and have that familiar feeling that had been missing for so long.

I can’t help but notice tears welling up in my eyes as I write this, but riding today made me feel like a part of me has returned. It’s a part of me I haven’t had for a few years and wasn’t sure I’d ever have again. I miss Harriet more than I ever thought imaginable, but I know she lives in our horses, and I know she lives in me. Every night I look up at the stars and I pick the one that stands out to me most. I close my eyes, see her face, and whisper good night to my best friend who watches me from above. Tonight, when I wish her sweet dreams, I know she’ll smile back and be proud that I got back up today.






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Sunday, July 04, 2010

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About one year ago I decided I needed a motto. For some reason I felt as though I should have one, and so began my search. As corny as it is, I actually looked up quotes on the internet in hopes of finding one. Nothing seemed right. What I was unaware of was that a motto isn’t just a statement or quote you may like. It’s something that helps you through tough times and keeps you motivated. A motto has to work for you. It has to help you. Today I can finally say that I have found mine: Do things that make you uncomfortable.

This certainly is not the mecca of all mottos and it is not something I immediately thought I would pick up, but I have found that it is an extreme motivational tool that helps me do things I’m afraid to do. On the surface, many people are unaware that I am painfully shy. I was a sophomore in high school before I would even walk into a gas station by myself, and last year I finally began phoning in pizza orders. Today, however, I made a breakthrough. I got a job as a mutuel teller at the horse races my town hosts every summer. Today was my first day, and I spoke to about 200 different strangers. At first I was terrified and extremely uncomfortable. I kept repeating my motto and forced myself to get over my issues. As it turns out, I discovered that I am outgoing. I was chatting with people I had never seen before and actually enjoying myself. I did what made me uncomfortable and got over my fear.

As I reflected on this great self-discovery, I realized something even greater. Today I watched as the horses went galloping by, mud flying through the air behind them, and I saw courage in their eyes. Then I’d look at the jockeys on their backs and I saw a hope and deeply rooted trust in the animals that carried them. I thought about my mom and how I watched her go through her chemo treatments. I thought about how much it took out of her and how hard she fought for each day. I also thought about my family and the work we put into her recovery. This concept, I have found, is not much different than a horse race. A race horse and jockey are a team. So are a cancer patient and his or her family. When all is said and done, it is up to the horse, or cancer patient, whether or not he or she chooses to run the race and how hard they fight to win. But the jockey must learn how the horse moves and what the animal needs to perform at its highest potential. This is how the cancer family operates. Ultimately, it is the patient’s battle to win, but the family does everything in its power to make sure their loved one has everything they need to fight the fight. By no means is it easy but, like all things, the greatest rewards stem from the hardest of work. In the end, it is the horse who runs the race, but it is the jockey he relies on to keep him going when hope is running short.



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Sunday, June 27, 2010

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For Father's Day last weekend, my dad and I watched the movie, Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. This amazing movie is about the life of Nelson Mandela and his involvement with the South African Rugby Team during the 1995 World Cup. Dad and I both almost cried several times while watching it, not because it was sad, but because it was so inspiring. With a name that means "unconquered" in Latin, Invictus is truly one of those life-changing movies that spoke to me.

What moved me so much about this film was the poem that embodies its message. The poem itself is titled, Invictus, and was written by William Ernest Henley. It is the actual poem that helped Nelson Mandela keep going during his imprisonment when everything in life told him to give-up. This poem has become my inspiration and my mantra, and I really feel that it speaks for itself. It is a must-read for everyone, especially those who are in the midst of the fight for their lives.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."


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